


To Serve And Protect

by eeyore9990



Series: December Gift Fic Spree [13]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Feels, M/M, Prostitute Peter Hale, Prostitution, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-13
Packaged: 2018-03-01 08:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2766974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sees the monster in Peter and doesn’t flinch; he recognizes it too clearly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Serve And Protect

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Valress (Val_Brown)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Val_Brown/gifts).



> December Fic Spree, Day 13: Fic for Valress.

Peter followed the john out of the strip club, unsurprised when the man spun and kicked at the backs of Peter’s legs. Peter hit his knees, the puddle he’d been attempting to step around soaking the knees of his jeans and covering them in mud and filth.. and from the stench of it, piss. He dropped his eyes to the ground, then dragged them up the body of his client. “Money first,” he drawled lazily, voice pleasant and urbane even as wrath began to stir in his gut.

Two twenties hit him in the face before fluttering further down the darkened alley. Peter didn’t care; he’d as soon leave it, but the man who stunk of anxiety-tinged arousal cared. He cared very much for those two bills. Likely planned to get them back from Peter by night’s end. Peter’s lips curled up in a snarl, but he shifted forward, sloshing as much of the puddle as possible over his client’s shoes.

"You have five minutes," he said before opening his mouth wide.

The man cursed and tore at the front of his pants, pulling out a limp cock that barely stretched the width of his palm. “Suck on it, whore!”

Peter narrowed his eyes and bared his teeth, snapping them together meaningfully. “You might consider a bit more respect for the one who has their teeth near your genitals.”

Eyes rolling to their whites in desperation and anger, the man lashed out, the back of his hand flying toward Peter’s face. In one deft move, Peter caught it and twisted, bringing it around just to the point of pain. “Do _not_ ,” he growled, letting a hint of the wolf color his tone. 

The man whined, high and frightened, but not even the neck-ruffling fear all prey felt in the presence of predators could keep this idiot from his goal. “C’mon, man. Just suck me.” Then he glanced around wildly before muttering, “You better not be counting this against my five minutes.”

Peter snorted to himself, but leaned forward, hands curling tight around the soft, fat thighs of his john. _As if it would take longer than a minute._

He wasn’t twenty seconds into it though when bright lights flashed through the alley, and the single blip of a police siren rang in his ears. His john shrieked and pulled free, not bothering to cover his dick as he turned and high-tailed it back to the club.

The sounds of deliberate, measured steps rang off the brick. Peter still couldn’t smell anything over the ambient stench of the alley, and all he could see through the harsh glare of bright lights was a dark silhouette… but he knew who that was.

"Sheriff," he called, rising gracefully from his knees as Stilinski finally drew close enough for Peter to make out his features.

"Mr. Hale. I wish I could say I was surprised to find you here." With a tired sigh, Stilinski swept his hat from his head and stared around the grungy alley. Tilting his head toward his cruiser, he said, "Get in the car, Peter. I’m taking you home."

Peter lifted one brow high. “Do you honestly believe you can make me do anything I don’t want to do? Or, barring that, _hold me_ in your feeble jail cells.”

"I think you’ll come with me because I told you to," Stilinski said before turning his back on Peter and walking away.

Peter followed, but only because he was curious. And because the alley had long since lost its charm. When he got to the squad car and reached for the back door handle, Stilinski shook his head.

"Up front," he said. "With me."

—

The silence remained unbroken through the length of Beacon County, down the long stretch of darkened road that lay between Beacon Heights and Beacon Hills. As they passed the sign welcoming them to the little town, Peter watched Stilinski reach forward and flip off the radio that had been playing mostly static with only a few broadcast calls to the dispatch officer.

Peter lifted his eyebrow, but didn’t bother to break the silence that settled over the car. Not, that is, until Stilinski turned from the main road into a residential neighborhood. “Where are you taking me?”

Stilinski took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot him a withering glare. “Playing stupid doesn’t suit you.”

Peter would take offense to that, but as he looked through the windshield, he realized he knew exactly where they were. This was the street Stiles — and by association, his father the sheriff — lived on. “Ah.”

Stilinski braked smoothly and turned into the empty driveway in front of his darkened house. Without another word to Peter, he unbuckled his seat belt and climbed from the car, pausing momentarily to give Peter’s fingers, where they hesitated over his own seat belt, a pointed look. Pursing his lips, Peter released himself from the confines of the car, trying not to breathe to obviously of the clean air outside it. The air that didn’t stink of piss and fetid alley water. 

Seeing that Stilinski was waiting for him near the steps to the porch, Peter strolled over, eyebrows winging upward. “I don’t usually make house calls, but for a man of your stature…” He allowed his gaze to crawl over Stilinski’s body. “I’m sure I could make an exception.”

Stilinski just shook his head, features, heartbeat, and scent giving nothing away. “Come along, Hale.” He climbed the steps and unlocked the door, reaching beyond it to flick on an interior light before standing back and gesturing Peter inside.

Still curious, Peter mounted the porch steps and walked into the small house, catching old hints of pack members and gunpowder in the air. “All alone. Whatever will you do with me now?”

Once again, Stilinski ignored him. “Do you want a change of pants? Those can’t possibly be comfortable.”

Peter looked down, nose wrinkling at the still-damp stains on his jeans. “Please.”

"I’ll be right back down, then. The laundry is just through the kitchen. Feel free to get comfortable."

Watching him go, Peter let an idle thought of stripping nude skitter through his consciousness then brushed the thought away. Removing his shoes, he set them near the door before shucking his jeans and wandering through the house to locate first the kitchen, then the tiny laundry area. The washing machine stood open, empty, awaiting Peter’s jeans. Dumping them in, he poured enough detergent for an entire load before flipping the dials.

As he waited, he paced the downstairs, studying dusty pictures that hung crooked on the walls and lined odd shelves. Stilinski’s soft tread alerted him to the man’s return and Peter was sitting comfortably at the table in the kitchen within seconds, hands folded in front of him. 

Stilinski’s gaze flashed to the laundry room when he finally entered the kitchen and he grunted before pulling the door shut, blocking out most of the noise of the washing machine. He’d changed clothes while he was gone, now wearing a rather ratty pair of flannel sleep pants and a well-worn police academy t shirt. Going to a cabinet, he pulled down a bottle of whiskey and two tumblers, pouring a few fingers in each tumbler before replacing the whiskey. He stepped toward Peter and set a glass in front of him, then shrugged a pair of soft-looking sweatpants off his shoulder, holding them out for Peter to take.

Accepting the clothing, Peter stood and tugged them on, though he tossed an amused glance at the whiskey.

Obviously noticing the look, Stilinski grimaced before saying, “Humor me. Call it a drink among…”

"Friends?" Peter offered, his tone mocking.

"Not quite." Stilinski raised his glass to Peter, though, before tipping back a mouthful. After Peter followed suit, Stilinski stared at him, his gaze calm and measuring. "How many times does this make, Peter?"

Peter smiled, insouciant, and opened his mouth to reply, only to snap it closed when Stilinski continued. 

"Not how many times have I caught you on your knees in some disgusting alley, but how many times have you degraded yourself by being in one?"

This time, Peter simply smirked and waggled a finger back and forth. “Ah ah. I believe I smell entrapment in the air.”

Stilinski continued, as if Peter had never spoken. “You don’t need the money. You are, I’m sure, not without the ability to attract far more desirable — not to mention _legal_ — partners.” Dropping his eyes to the heavy tumbler in his hand, he murmured softly, “How many times are you going to punish yourself?”

Peter’s lips curled up at that, and he took a deliberate sip of his whiskey before he said, “Armchair psychology, Sheriff? Isn’t that a _bit_ above your pay grade?”

"My pay grade. Interesting that you should mention that. What do you think my job is, Peter?" Stilinski tilted his head, the question reflected in his eyes.

"Why, you’re the sheriff. You wear the white hat and capture the bad guys," Peter mocked. "All, of course, while remaining clean and pure."

Stilinski’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled softly, though the air smelled faintly of sadness. “My hands haven’t been clean in a long time. No, Peter, beneath all the paperwork and the godawful politics, my job boils down to two things.” Staring across the small table, Stilinski set his glass down lightly and said, “I serve the people. And I protect them.” Standing slowly, he kept his gaze locked with Peter’s and rounded the table. “Sometimes,” he murmured, “I must protect them from themselves.”

As he stepped up beside Peter, Stilinski dropped his hand, warm and broad, to Peter’s shoulder, squeezing gently before he moved it up, slowly and carefully, to the back of his neck. “How can I serve you, Peter? How can I protect you from yourself?”

Peter pushed back, quick as a thunderstrike, whole body quivering as he came to a stop across the room, shaken to his core by the first gentle touch he’d felt since waking in the hospital. But Stilinski didn’t stop, didn’t hesitate or flinch, just came after Peter again, this time wrapping both arms around him and holding him as his traitorous body trembled in the silence.

Unable to stand this, and equally unable to convince his body to break away, Peter allowed his tongue free rein. “Should I get on my knees for you, _Sheriff_? It’s $40 for the first five minutes, twenty for the next, but I’m sure a man like you won’t last beyond two. So greedy for companionship that you pull whores off the street to service you—” 

"Call me John," Stilinski said, speaking smoothly over the poisonous words that poured from Peter’s mouth.

"I call all of my clients john," Peter shot back nastily, even as his fingers curled into the soft, thin material of Stilinski’s shirt.

Stilinski touched his mouth to the side of Peter’s face, letting him feel the smile the man was wearing. “But it’s not enough with them, is it? It’s the punishment you think you want, but not the touches you crave. I know. God, how I know.”

At those words, Peter finally found the strength to shove Stilinski away. “What do you know?” Sneering, he dropped to his knees and said, “You know nothing. So stop trying to tell yourself you’re doing this for me and come shove your dick down my throat. If you think it’ll reach that far.”

Studying him, Stilinski nodded and moved forward, stepping so close his groin almost touched Peter’s parted lips, his heavy breaths stirring the fabric and pushing it so that it outlined the heavy length of Stilinski’s cock. But instead of shoving the rest of the way forward, Stilinski pushed his fingers into Peter’s hair, massaging his scalp. “I know what it’s like to want more than you have. I know what it is to seethe with the injustice of those around me receiving things they haven’t earned through blood and sweat. I know the emptiness of finally reaching your goal only to realize it’s tainted. I know what it is to watch people I love suffer and die.”

Easing to his knees, Stilinski tightened his hold on Peter’s head, keeping it still, not allowing him to look away. “I know what it is to kill an innocent. To betray those you love. To not be… enough.”

Running his hands down Peter’s neck to his shoulders, Stilinski kept touching him, all the while continuing to speak in a soft tone. “I know what it is to be the monster my child fears most. To live within myself, unable to forgive. To wake up my own enemy.”

At those words, the last of the fight went out of Peter and he crumpled forward, face falling to rest against the curve of Stilinski’s throat. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t _breathe_ from having his soul laid bare and recognized so easily.

"So I ask you again, Peter. How may I serve you? How can I protect you from yourself?"

Peter couldn’t possibly put his needs into words, but they flared in him bright and wild. He moved into Stilinski’s body, put his own hands on bare flesh, his mouth to the pulse that beat strong and sure. Accepted the touches laid across his skin and gave his own in return.

It wasn’t sex, though any other person would have named it that. It wasn’t love making, either. It was falling into arms you barely trusted to catch you and rejoicing when they did. It was tasting the guilt on another and recognizing it as your own. 

It was letting someone else see the monster within you and knowing they wouldn’t flinch.


End file.
